


roaming around, always looking down

by groundopenwide



Series: NYU 'Verse [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Raphael is still a vampire though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>That would be just Simon’s luck: saving someone who isn’t just a total asshole, but also happens to be, like, a mob boss or a drug lord or something. Actually, come to think of it, Raphael does give off this <b>I could break your neck with my bare hands</b> kind of vibe, which, great. Maybe bothering him isn’t the best plan Simon’s ever had, after all.</i>
</p>
<p>Semi-AU based on this: “I’m sorry I was staring at you at the train platform but you looked like you wanted to jump.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	roaming around, always looking down

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not exactly sure what this is?? i've just been really into shadowhunters and the whole simon/raphael dynamic lately so i wanted to try my hand at it. that means this little fic is mostly me getting a feel for simon and raphael as characters, so it's not super exciting. there are also a lot of loose strings because simon's pov kind of restricted me from diving into vampire stuff, so i'll probably come back later and turn this into a verse or something to tie those up. still, i hope this is at least somewhat enjoyable on its own!!
> 
> here's the lowdown: it's a weird AU thing where everyone is a mundane except for raphael who is (evidently) still a vampire. simon goes to NYU and clary goes to the Brooklyn Academy of Art and…yeah. i don’t know. just go with it.
> 
> title taken from "use somebody" by kings of leon.

The problem with going to school all the way over in Greenwich Village, Simon thinks, is that it takes a torturous forty-five minutes (by _subway)_ to get to Clary over in Brooklyn. And when your best friend texts you with nothing but _911!!_ followed by the flashing red light emoji, well. Forty-five minutes isn’t exactly ideal.

(Granted, Clary’s version of _911_ usually just entails some sort of Jace-related drama, after which she inevitably turns to Simon for someone to talk at- yes, _at-_ and a wallet to support her Ben  & Jerry’s binging tendencies. Simon really is the best friend in the universe. In fact, make that the best friend in this universe _and_ every parallel universe outside of that).

It’s even less ideal when the N-line is twenty minutes delayed and Simon ends up stuck underground with a bunch of snooty businessmen and the five homeless guys who have been lucky enough that day to claim a spot against the wall with their bucket drums. At present, he’s doing his best not to wring the neck of the quasi-musician who’s banging and chanting a few feet away. Simon’s a patient guy, honest. But when his head is still pounding from the financial accounting lecture he just got out of and his phone won’t stop blowing up with Snapchats of Clary’s pouting face…

His patience only extends so far, is all he’s saying.

He thumbs off a jumbled _delayed train dreadlocked man singing off key math induced headache i’m sorry i’m sorry i’ll be there asap!!!_ to Clary _,_ then leans back against the pillar he’s taken up residence in front of and closes his eyes. Once he thinks he’s gotten his _I’m literally going to punch everyone in the face_ thoughts under control, he opens them again. Better to just accept the level of shitty that is his life right now, since he’s going to be here awhile.

Despite the level of noise in the station and the fact that the train is delayed, the platform isn’t actually that crowded. It’s late enough that Simon’s missed the lunch rush, but still early enough to keep him safe from the end-of-the-workday mob. He can see straight through from where he’s standing all the way to the train track, which is quite a few yards away—a rare occurrence. More importantly, this _also_ means that he’s instantly able to spot the random guy who’s standing rather close to the edge of the platform. 

_Too_ close.

Simon straightens up from his lean and whirls around in a quick circle-scan of the station, but nobody else seems to have noticed that there’s a guy who literally looks like he’s _waiting to jump in front of a moving train._ Forget financial accounting—New Yorkers are the one thing that Simon will never, ever understand, not even when he’s been one for his entire life.

He’s moving before he’s conscious of it, stepping away from his beloved pillar in the direction of Mr. I’m-Either-Suicidal-or-Just-Plain-Idiotic. Whether he’s going to talk him down or just physically hold him back, Simon hasn’t decided yet. Then the guy suddenly sways forward and takes away any time Simon has to _make_ the decision. He darts forward, about to reach for the first part of the guy he can get his hands on—so, the strap of the stupidly fancy leather briefcase that’s hooked over his shoulder—but then the guy takes a step back from the platform edge and turns his head, presumably to cast a quick glance around the station. His eyes land right on Simon.

“Um,” Simon says eloquently.

The guy arches a single eyebrow, probably in response to Simon’s current position: he’s stumbled to a stop just a few feet away with his arm still outstretched, and, well. It definitely looks like he’d been about to snatch the guy’s briefcase, and that is just—not what his plan had entailed. Not at all.

“I was just,” Simon rushes to explain. “I was going to—you were—”

“Sure,” the guy says. He adjusts one of the wrist cuffs on his suit jacket and proceeds to look extremely bored of the entire situation. “Nice try, kid.”

“No, wait, I swear I wasn’t—” Simon pauses, then narrows his eyes. “Hold on a second, ‘kid?’ We’re practically the same age!”

Now that he’s close enough, Simon can tell it’s true—this guy can’t be past his early 20’s, at the _very_ oldest. His hair is dark and slicked back, demeanor all business-like and collected, but there’s a smoothness to his face that gives him away. No wrinkles, no wear—nothing to indicate aging.

The guy rolls his eyes at Simon’s protest and turns back to the platform in an _I am incredibly done with this conversation_ kind of way. “Doubtful.”

Of course _this_ is what Simon gets for trying to be a good person: some stuck-up, condescending asshole whose mother never taught him how to say _thank you_. It figures, really.

“Listen, man, you were standing really close to the edge of the platform. I was just making sure you weren’t going to—you know.”

“Jump?”

The guy says it so nonchalantly, with such little inflection in his voice, that Simon does a double-take. 

“ _Were_ you? Going to jump?”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” the guy shrugs, and whatever the hell _that_ means, Simon has no idea. Freaking New Yorkers. “No need to worry your pretty head off about me. I won’t get in the way of any moving trains, promise.”

Get in the way of— _christ._

“Are you sure you’re, like, okay? Up there?” Simon taps an index finger against his own temple. “Because it would really suck if I walked away right now and you ended up as a bug on some train’s windshield or a pancake underneath one or something.”

“I _was_ perfectly okay. Until you walked over here to bother me, that is.”

Now _that—_ talk about ungrateful. No wonder characters like Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen are so cranky all the time.

“I was trying to save your life!” Simon exclaims.

The guy mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like _a little late for that,_ and yeah, Simon is about 105% certain that said guy is definitely _not okay,_ if the morbid comments and stone-like expression on his face are anything to go by.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until my train shows up, anyway,” he decides.

“ _Dios,”_ the guy mutters. 

Simon barrels on as though the exclamation never happened. “My name’s Simon, by the way, and you’re welcome for the whole _being concerned about your wellbeing_ thing.”

“I didn’t ask for your concern _._ ”

“You didn’t? Tough luck then.” The guy’s face turns absolutely murderous at the words, and Simon takes great joy from this fact. “So, do I get to know your name or what?”

“Will that get you to shut up?”

“Probably not. My brain-to-mouth filter is faulty at best.”

Simon watches as the guy’s eyes drift to the ceiling, most likely in silent prayer: _Lord, give me the strength not to pull this stranger down with me when I jump in front of the next train._

“Raphael,” the guy says.

“What?”

“ _Raphael,”_ he repeats. “My name is Raphael. _¿Entiendes?”_

“I took French in high school,” Simon says. That’s right—two can play at this _being a complete ass_ game.

Raphael shoots him a look that could cut glass.

“Do you make a habit of annoying unsuspecting strangers in subway stations?”

“Only the suicidal ones.”

“I’m not— _Dios,_ ” Raphael says again.

Simon offers him a smile, bright and pointed. Raphael’s glare intensifies. 

It really wasn’t Simon’s initial intention to stay and bug the crap out of this random guy he’s met in a subway station, but if bugging Raphael means keeping him from stepping off the edge of the platform—because _yeah,_ Simon’s still pretty sure there’s a good chance of that happening—then so be it. Maybe Raphael will thank him someday. Or not. Whatever.

“What’s with the fancy suit and briefcase?” he asks. “Are you already one with the corporate world? There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, just, you know, you’re kind of young to already be a big businessman—there’s no way you’re older than me, don’t even try to deny it again—so it’d make more sense if you were like, in school or something—”

“I had a meeting.”

“A business kind of meeting? Or just a meeting-meeting?”

Raphael has seriously mastered the unamused look; Simon wonders if he practices it in the mirror when he brushes his teeth at night. “It was an important meaning,” he says vaguely.

“Well, that doesn’t sound suspicious or anything,” Simon mumbles. 

(That would be just Simon’s luck: saving someone who isn’t just a total asshole, but also happens to be, like, a mob boss or a drug lord or something. Actually, come to think of it, Raphael does give off this _I could break your neck with my bare hands_ kind of vibe, which, great. Maybe bothering him isn’t the best plan Simon’s ever had, after all.)

“Do you really think I’m going to share the details of an important work deal with a stranger in a subway station?” Raphael asks, but it sounds more like, _could you possibly be any more stupid?_ and that’s just offensive. Simon got an A in Managerial Finance last semester, thank you very much.

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” he huffs.

“I don’t _want_ to have a conversation,” Raphael says, slowly, like he’s speaking to a toddler. That murderous look from earlier is back on his face, and, okay, wow, is Simon actually about to get punched? If the curl of Raphael’s fists at his sides are any indication, then yes, some kind of physical violence is indeed not far off. Simon gulps.

“Please don’t hit me,” he says weakly.

He’s fairly certain that the plea only increases the likelihood of him ending up with a black eye, but before Raphael can act, the tension is broken by the marimba version of _Hedwig’s Theme_ blaring from Simon’s pocket.

“Oh, thank god,” he breathes. He digs his phone out and lifts it to his ear, steadfastly avoiding Raphael’s glare the entire time. “Clary?”

“Simon!” She sounds frazzled. “Where are you? Is everything okay? It never takes you this long to get here.”

Simon exhales a long breath. “I texted you,” he offers. “My train is delayed.”

“Oh.” He hears the beeping of some buttons being pressed, followed by a significantly more calm: “Yeah, I definitely missed that message. Sorry.”

“No big deal.” Simon is acutely aware that Raphael is probably listening to every word of this conversation, and it makes him feel slightly off-kilter. He reaches up and fiddles with his glasses, rubbing the sweat from the bridge of his nose. “I’ll text you once I’m on the train, okay? And when I get to your door I’ll already have a pint of half-baked in hand. Swear it.”

“You’re the best,” Clary tells him, and it’s spoken with so much honesty that it knocks Simon back into place. He really _is_ the best, isn’t he? No matter what the very cranky and slightly terrifying stranger across from him thinks. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” he says. He waits until Clary hangs up first before lowering the phone from his ear and returning it to his pocket. Once that’s done, he looks up to find Raphael watching him, his angry expression having been replaced by something unreadable. It makes Simon go a bit shaky again.

“Girlfriend?” Raphael asks casually.

Simon’s brows furrow. “Clary? No, no, we’re best friends.”

(He purposefully doesn’t mention the fact that he definitely _wanted_ Clary to be his girlfriend up until, like, six months ago, because that obviously isn’t important.)

Raphael hums but doesn’t say anything else. At least he doesn’t look like he’s poised to kill anymore, Simon supposes. 

A few seconds later—somehow, miraculously—the whole station comes to life to signal that the train is finally ( _finally!)_ coming in. For a split second, Simon allows himself to feel sweet, sweet relief, but then—before he can think too much about the possibility of his hand getting chopped off for what he’s about to do—he grabs onto the strap of Raphael’s bag and _tugs_ , dragging the other man a safe few steps back from the edge of the platform.

“What are you—” Raphael starts, turning to retaliate, and he does so just in time: the front of the train whizzes past his back and slows to a stop further down the tunnel, effectively eliminating any possibility of his body ending up in front of it.

“Better safe than sorry,” Simon shrugs. 

Raphael just stares at him for a long moment—doesn’t glare, doesn’t scowl, just stares, his brows slightly lowered and his expression indecipherable. Simon definitely does _not_ shrink under the weight of the look, no way. 

“You should probably go catch your train now,” Raphael finally says.

“Isn’t it your train too?”

Raphael doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a step away from Simon, brushing some kind of invisible speck off one of the lapels of his jacket as he goes. 

“What, so you just—hang out in subway stations for fun?” Simon asks in disbelief.

Raphael glances at him again, eyes narrowing, and then—then the most peculiar thing happens. 

The corner of his mouth turns upward the faintest bit. 

It’s not _quite_ a smile, but it’s not the apathetic thin line that Simon’s become accustomed to seeing over the past half hour, either. Simon blinks, stares. His mouth is probably open and gaping.

“Only when I’m feeling suicidal,” Raphael says.

At that moment, someone comes jostling past them, knocking right into Simon and propelling him towards where the train waits at the edge of the platform. He tries to catch himself and turn back to Raphael, but the crowd has gotten too dense. It’s carrying him now, his body getting swept up in the flow of people moving both to and from the train. Simon cranes his neck as far as it can go, trying his best to spot Raphael among the sea of bobbing heads, but the search proves itself to be futile.

He’s already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm also on [tumblr!](http://groundopenwide.tumblr.com)


End file.
